Flight of the Condor
It is late April and the sun is warm, especially away from the shade of the narrow streets. It is
four in the afternoon and the school day is over. I am running across the square into the vibrant
and spacious open-air market place to help Mama sell her basket ware. The colourful stalls are
arranged in rows. Craning my neck I’m scanning the crowd.
“Who are you looking for cariño?” Mama asks.
Stepping into the shade of the white canvas covered stall I see the twinkle in her eyes.
“You want to see Pedro, no?”
“Oh, Mama. You know we are only friends.”
Let me tell you about my friend Pedro; he is almost the same age as me and he works with his
Papa, walking the herds of goats and sheep across the land for grazing, just like his Grandpapa
used to do many years ago – our traditions are important to us in the Basque country. Last summer
I would walk along with him and we would talk about everything. I’d agreed to let him hold my
hand. Smiling now, I remember Mama’s face when Pedro sent me home with a new-born goat. Its
mother had given birth to twins out in the hills and Pedro said we would have one each, they could
be our pets. Mama had laughed.
“Soon he will want you as his bride!” Mama tells me, sassiness in her voice as she teases.
“Next will come the kiss. You see if I’m right!”
I feel my face blushing at Mama’s words. It is months since I saw Pedro. But maybe today.
Maybe he will come to the market with his Papa and today will be a good day for us. I smile at my
beautiful Mama and squeeze her, placing a peck on her cheek at the same time.
Mama says the market has been busier since the arrival of thousands of refugees moving
up from the south, away from the war. We used to be such a small town, more of a village really,
but we must all stick together and help each other thr